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chambers. The very horror of the fact had to sacrifice his life for the honor of God, his stupified all curiosity."

king, and his country. "John FELTON." The duchess was in an upper room, “scarce yet out of bed.” With the Countess of An- The assassin did not need this paper to make glesey she came into a gallery which looked him known. He had no mind to escape. into the hall. There they saw “the blood of Evidently he had expected to be killed on the their dearest lord gushing from him.” An eye- spot. He never wanted resolution, before or witness, who wrote an account of the occur- after his deed. Many officers and gentlemen rence to the queen, says that their cries and pressed into the house, crying, “Where is the tears and distractions were so great, that he villain ? Where is the butcher ?Immedinever in his life heard the like before, and ately Felton came forward with a bold face, hoped never to hear the like again.

drawing his sword, and saying, “I am the When the king heard of his favourite's death

Here I am.” Swords were drawn on he kept an unmoved countenance.

all sides at once, and he would have been supposed that he was not displeased to be killed red-handed ; but Sir Thomas Morton, rid of so obnoxious minister. But in Carleton, and others, with difficulty rescued reality he was as much attached to Bucking- ' him, and took him into a private room. ham as ever, as much as ever prejudiced They found that the assassin was against his ene

contented lieumies. His grief

tenant, who bad was “more than

served under

the Duke of cret he shed

Buckingham in many tears."

the first expeHe wished even

dition to La to have the as

Rochelle, where sassin examined

he had done by torture, to

good service. In discover his ac

answer to their complices, but

questions, he the judges ruled

declared that that such

"he was partly course was il

discontented for legal.

want of eighty In the con

pounds pay fusion that fol

which was due lowed his act,

to him; and for the murderer

that he being passed unnoHouse where the Duke of Buckingham was murdered.

a lieutenant of ticed through

a company of the crowd into

foot, the comthe kitchen of the house. There he stood pany was given over his head unto another, quietly, while some hurried to the town ram- and yet, hee sayd, that that did not move parts, and others to the gates, to keep watch. him to this resolution, but that hee, reading With the violence of the blow his hat had the Remonstrance of the House of Parliafallen off, and was found near the door of the ment, it came into his mind, that in com

Iu the crown of it, half within the mitting the act of killing the Duke, hee lining, was a paper containing some should do his country great good service. And lines of a late Remonstrance of the House of hee sayd that to-morrow he was to be prayed Commons, which declared Buckingham to be for in London. .. at a church in Fleet an enemy of the kingdom. There were also Street Conduit, and, as for a man much disthese words :

contented in mind."

When they saw how readily he told all he “If I bee slaine, let no man condemn him- knew, they would not allow him to be quesselfe ; it is for our sinns that our barts are tioned further, “thinking it much fitter for hardned, and become sencelesse, or else hee the Lords to examine him, and to finde it out, had not gone soe long unpunished.

and knowe from him whether he was encou"John FELTON.” raged and sett on by any to performe this “He is unworthy of the name of a gentle- wicked deed.” At first they told him that man, or soldier, in my opinion, that is afrayd | the duke was not killed, but only seriously






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wounded, and not without hopes of recovery. sounder heart than Buckingham's to bear the But Felton smiled, and said that he knew well perils of his place. Beginning as a simple that the duke had received a blow which ended gentleman, he passed from stage to stage of all their hopes.

Then he was taken in safe royal favour, till Charles I. made him Duke of custody to the governor's house, and examined Buckingham. He exercised arbitrary power, at once.

almost without limit. The nation was goAbout three weeks later, on a Friday night verned without rule at the favourite's caprice. in September, the prisoner was brought to the The crown was degraded by the favourite's Tower by water, “ being put into the same whims. Prudent people were set aside to lodging where Sir John Elliott lay, and allowed make room for the favourite himself. Pertwo dishes of meat at each mcal." After sonally brave, but utterly incompetent as a about two months, “when no man expected general, his egregious military blunder before any such thing,” one morning “before break La Rochelle and the consequent failure of his of day” ho was taken from the Tower to the expedition, is not to be wondered at. He disGatehouse, and between six and seven o'clock turbed the peace of the kingdom. He ruineil the same morning was brought by the sheriff English relations with foreign courts. He and many armed men to the bar of the King's sacrificed honester men to the advancement of Bench. “ His indictment being read, he con- his own influence. He presumed to lift his fessed the fact, but added that he did it not eyes, and not without favour, to the Queen of maliciously, but out of an intent for the good France. He dared to raise his hand to strike of his country.” Religious and patriotic fana- the heir to the throne of England. So arro. ticism had acted upon his naturally sullen and ' gant a subject scarce ever was known. Though melancholic temperament, and joined with his maintaining to the last a strange ascendancy desire of personal revenge, brought about his over the mind of the king, he was at the mocrime. Ho thought he did God service in ment of his death the most unpopular man in killing this great enemy of religion and of the England. Even at this distance of time the country. No one had incited him.

His own

verdict of his own age as to his character canconscience alone had prompted him. His not be reversed. conscience did not condemn him.

His sense

In an urn of stone, on a monument raised of right had nerved his arm and directed to her brother's memory by the Countess of his weapon-so he persuaded himself. The Denbigli, in the old parish church of Saint duke was a public enemy, the cause of every : Thomas, in Portsmouth, his heart was said to national grievance, of whom England would be be preserved. Years afterwards, when the well rid. He also himself had suffered from monument was removed from its place over the carelessness or the caprice of Buckingham. the altar to its present position, the urn was Public and personal hatred thus met in him. found empty.

Is this an unfit emblem of the He would revenge the church, and the state, life of him to whose memory it is sacred ? and himself, with one blow. Now he had

J. C. H. accomplished his aim, and was content.

At his trial “Mr. Attorney made a speech in aggravation of the murder ; . . . he pro

AUTUMN TIME. duced the knife in open court.” It had been bought for tenpence “in a by-cutler's shop of TIME, like a wrinkled bermit, sits, Tower-hill.” The sheath of it he had sewed

Counting his beads, each bead a day; to the lining of his pocket, that he might at

From his long rosary of years

Those beads drop silently away. any moment draw the blade with one hand, for he had injured the other. 6. Then Justice Jones, being the ancient on the bench,” gave Or, as a sexton, one by one, sentence that he should be hanged until he

Puts out the smouldering funeral lamps, was dead. His execution was carried out at

And leaves the corpse alone and still,

Amid the charnel's dripping damps. Tyburn, on the 19th November of the same year. Afterwards his body was hung in chains on Southsea Common, close to Portsmouth, on

So dealeth Time, who strips the leaves a spot which tradition still points out. At

Of bankrupt summer's rich array,

As gaolers strip the trembling fool, Tyburn it is said that he testified very many

Whose spendthrift wealth has bad its day. signs of repentance. “He was very long a dying." The favourite of two kings, endowed with

Yet these are but the feeble types

of higher dooms to sons of clay, every grace of manner and of fashion, of rank

Of shiver'd globes and falling worlds, and wealth, it required a stronger head and a

And earthquakes of the latter day. W. T.






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For ever shall she be in praise,

fall far short of the original; still, I will do my By wise or good forsaken :

best, Grace, my very best. First, shall I tell Nained softly as the household name

you what it was that rendered her so doubly Of one whom God bath taken. MRS. E. BARRETT BROWNING.

dear to our hearts ?--a precious treasure to be

kept, guarded, shielded by our love from the Cousin Miriam ; dear, kind, patient Cousin 1

storms and rough winds that blew outside our Miriam. For I will tell you all bout her,

world-our quiet, calm, stormless world of Grace, as I promised I would on this day, her home; a sacred gift to be consecrated there birthday. On this June evening, while we valued, tended, cherished day by day ;—shall two sll together here in this pleasant summer- I tell you what it was, Grace ? Our Miriam was house, where she and I used to sit on those deaf and dumb. other June evenings that seem so far away

Yet she was the life of our life, joy of now. I will try to make you know her as I our joys, soother of our pain. For all the knew her ; see her as I saw her—as I see her shadow that rested upon her and around her, still (looking back through the soft blue dis- -the shadow of a great silence, the deep tance of years), very good, very beautiful, very mysterious hush of this world's music and patient. I will try to draw her picture faith- voices, the absence of all sweet sounds ; to fully, as truly as I can, but striving my very whom the birds sang in vain summer after best.

I know that, after all, my portrait will summer, and bees hummed dreamily, and little

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brooks babbled away through pleasant woods and to my father she grew dearer every day; and meadows, and children filled the air with as for me, I soon learnt to call her sister, and shouting and laughter; but none of those could she called me brother (speaking to each other make our Miriam smile : and yet it was not in that mute finger-language); we said it was in seldom that we saw her smile—no, not seldom; jest, but there was more of earnest than of and what a glad, sunny smile it was, making us jest in those names: I knew that afterwards, who watched it very glad.

when we lost her. My mother said that Miriam had a secret of O Miriam, that was a dreary day, the day her own that made her glad, a ceaseless under- we lost you, the day you went away from us, singing in her heart, that sang to her a sweeter and we had nothing left of you but your empty song than those she might not hear. And place and sweet memory, and the presence of a because she heard them not, she seemed ever great sad blank where you had sat, or stood, listening to that inner music, that helped her or walked among us! O Miriam, Miriam ! I smiling on her silent way.

am glad to think you never knew how wearily Could we help it that we loved her so, that we missed you. I am glad to think you could in time she grew to be our very idol ? Could not hear that troubled cry in our hearts that we help it that, as day after day and year

after ever calling to you from morning till year passed by us, our lives grew closer and evening, from evening till morning, Miriam ! closer to hers, so close at last, that often while | Miriam ! and every room and corner in the we watched her we would ask each other, Could i house and garden only echoed, Miriam. And we live without her now? would it be easy to so she lived her life among us, her quiet, kind, forget her, and take up again the threads of patient, self-forgetting life; and those midsumthe old life that we left off weaving when she mer holidays were the happiest I had ever came to us ; would it be very easy? And we spent. What pleasant bright memories I always answered, No, how could we? for was she carried back to school when they were over not the brightener of our winter, the sunshine (how much too quickly over) of long days' of our June, so to speak, our angel in the rambles through fields, and woods, and lanes, house?

we two all by ourselves, with the blue sky over I was away at school when Cousin Miriam our heads, and soft mosses and wild flowers came to make her home among us ; she was under our feet, and sunlight around us and my mother's orphan niece, the child of her lost within us, and cool green shadows that kept sister. Just two years separated us ; she was many a resting-place for us, quiet, consecrated fourteen, I twelve. How well I remember spots (like those other resting-places we all coming home for the holidays one midsummer consecrate in youth, and return to in after day (the pleasant summer holidays), and years with tired steps to look upon through finding her at my mother's side, filling a tears of reverent affection, to sit down once daughter's place to her.

again under their cool deep shadows from the How well I remember my first boyish im- heat and dust of life's busy day of travel), and pressions of her, and yet I cannot describe of coming home at evening, when the dew was them as I would ; but as I look at her now falling, and the nightingales were singing, through the faithful mirror of memory, she though only one of us might listen to their comes before me as distinctly as I saw her that sweet mournful music-only one. And then, midsummer day, with her pale, sweet, quiet when “good night” came to be said, how pleaface, and soft brown hair that fell about it like sant it seemed to remember that we should meet a shadow; and her eyes—Grace, I thought I again the next day, and the next, and the next,

r had never seen any eyes like them before ; that we should be together erery day through so loving, and earnest, and thoughtful ; so the long, long holidays. It was wonderful how eloquent with their own sweet language, out of soon the people in our village grew to love which her young heart-world looked forth, Cousin Miriam ; wonderful how men and calm, tender, and beautiful; clear, faithful eyes women and little children felt a throb of glad that, like a pure stream, reflected the stars as ness whenever she crossed their path. Yet well as the sunlight.

no, it was not wonderful, for Miriam had such Not many days went by before we each felt a gentle sympathising way about her, such a her presence in the house, like a sweet holy ready interest in all that pleased or troubled influence that wove new threads of gladness, those she met in her silent way, such kindness and hope, and comfort into our daily little joys in rejoicing with them, such skill in comforting, and sorrows.

that people grew to love her every day, and My mother's heart, if she was cast down by knew it not. I was always her interpreter; some household care or perplexity, would grow through me she heard many a little household light again when Miriam came in at the door, story of joys and troubles, hopes and anxieties, many a heart and life history; and through me unresting waves, that would never be still for passed back again the word of sympathy, or a moment, that have never been still since the help, or counsel that the sealed lips might not day when the Spirit of God moved upon the express, though the tender heart was always face of the waters, and will never rest till the ready.

earth and the heaven shall be dissolved, and And so the years went by us ; summer after there shall be no more sea. summer, and winter after winter, came and Long, long hours we sat there by the sea, went ; June after June, and Christmas after Miriam and I, and wearied not, though to her Christmas, I came home for the holidays, and it must have seemed but as the restlessness of still that other face was there to add its smile a great silence, the strife and tumult of life of welcome to the dear home greetings. Yes, without the music. And so we let the hours Miriam, my heart's own sister, you were one go by without ever staying to count them, more drop of gladness in my cup at coming. sitting there watching the waves come and go, home time; but also one drop more of pain like the hopes, and dreams, and yearnings that when the last-day of the holidays came, and make the tides of our life, or reading those the last good-bye was said. It is always so in wonderful poems of Mrs. Browning, wonderful our life here : each new tree that grows in our for truth, wonderful for their rich wealth of garden both bears us fruit and blossom to thought, wonderful for strength, liviug, earnest add to our store, and also casts another shadow strength. across our path. Happy if, after we have How Miriam delighted in those poems ; how gathered the flowers, we can rest quietly under I have seen her eye kindle and her cheek glow the shadow, still enjoying the perfumed leaves, as page after page opened to some new chamber even while they are fading one by one in our in the treasury of thought. How every chord hand. Happy if our cherished tree be an in her nature seemed to thrill to the sure true evergreen, so leaving us a shadow for rest touch of that master-hand, as it could thrill to afterwards, and not the chilling sight of cold, no other no other but hers. dry, leafless branches marking the place where Two months passed away, two bright months, the flowers have been. So the years went by and then we all went home again ; and Miriam, us year after year till we counted six. Miriam though she had been very happy at the sea, was a woman now, and I had left school and yet was glad to be once more in the old home, entered college. Yes, Miriam was grown to glad to sit by the open window in the drawing. be a woman, a gentle, thoughtful, earnest- room inhaling the sweet breath of the flowers, hearted woman, very good, very beautiful, very that came in from every nook and corner of patient.

the garden, still glowing in all the fresh, full But the years which had brought strength beauty of late summer. and vigour to her inner life, unfolding day by We had some quiet days and weeks after day its quiet beauty, brought little or none to that, seeing little or no change either for better the frail outer being. Miriam was not strong, or worse in our gentle invalid. Gently day she had never been strong from her childhood. by day that slender thread of her life was It always seemed to us that the thread of her unwinding itself gently and painlessly. Very human life but held her with a slender clasp quietly the river was flowing away to the sea, that grew more slender every year, gently and we who walked beside it heard it singing unwinding itself day by day, as if it feared to as it went, making sweeter and gladder music let her feel too painfully the slackening of its as we listeneri, sweeter and gladder; and we hold. My mother began to speak of Miriam could not sigh or weep. in ber letters as being delicate, that her congh It was the middle of October when I returned made her feel uneasy; she had had it so long to college ; only for ei dit weeks, Iliriam and I that she thought her paler and thinner than she said to each other, the last evening before I used to be. Still, I knew my mother was apt to went away-only for eight weeks ; and then be over-anxious, so I hoped on in spite of her she put into my hand a little Bible, nicely troubled words.

bound, with my name and hers written in the At last she wrote to say that the doctors beginning, asking me to keep it always for her had ordered sea air for Miriam; and so, when sake. Surely there was little need to ask the long summer vacation came, we all went that. for a few weeks to the sea. It was a pleasant I took it up to my own room, and turning happy time we spent there, a quiet, tranquil over the leaves before I packed it up, I found time, filled with sunny hours, to be laid by for a little mark in that verse which speaks of the after-memories, treasured sacredly for ever. land where the ears of the deaf shall be unWe used to sit for long, long hours on the shore, stopped, and the tongue of the dumb shall Miriam and I, watching the wild, ceaseless, sing.

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